by Ally B
“Really? So soon?”
“You got me scared! I can’t lose Jerry.”
“The father you never had.” I joke.
“Speaking of…” He trails off.
“No.”
“Yes. Pink Starburst.”
“You know you only get one of those per month,” I ask him, the tone shifting to a more serious one.
“I know. Cashing it in right now.” He slaps his hand on the counter.
Pink Starburst is a time-honored tradition between the two of us. When we were in fourth grade, my mom would put two Starbursts in my lunch pail every day. One for me, one for Max. I knew that everyone liked the pink ones most, so I gave them to him. It took two years before he finally admitted to hating them, and thus Pink Starburst was born. It was a promise we made each other when we were ten, but we still use it as a way to get information out of the other. Once a month, you can use it to ask the other anything and get the full truth, no objections.
“Saturday wasn’t pretty,” I confess.
“What happened?” His face shows genuine concern.
“My grandpa was being an asshole to Tom, and I had to defend him. We left super early. Amy was a bitch. It was a whole thing.” I shake my head, feeling my chest tighten at the mention of my father. I’d somehow managed to push all of the bad out of my head, but not anymore.
“So, you were doing the parenting?” He asks me.
“I watched him bully my mom enough before the accident. I couldn’t let him bully his son, too.”
“So, you’re a badass now?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Hide your wives and children. I’ll come up with one good comeback and then fumble my words for a solid minute.”
“The most terrifying scare-tactic.” He laughs.
“So, Ava. Are you going to ask her to homecoming?” I change the subject.
“I’m a lone-wolf, man.”
“Bullshit.” I roll my eyes.
“Swear jar.” He grins. “I’m not going to ask her. If we hang out, we hang out.” He shrugs.
“That’s douchey.”
“It’s not douchey!” He defends, “I just don’t want to go to homecoming with someone. Then you have to take pictures with their parents and match your clothes, and it’s a whole thing.”
“Fear of commitment?” I ask him.
“Fear of Amy Truman?” He mimics my tone.
And he has a point.
“That’s fair.” I nod.
My father’s sister is kind of intimidating. Her little bleached bob can barely be seen over the wheel of her Suburban, and she’s still somehow feared by at least half of the town. She’s the head of the school PTA and has her hand in every committee and club at Emerson. Yet somehow manages to be hated by almost everyone she comes in contact with. If I didn’t know her dad so well, I would wonder how Ava turned out to be decent human being.
“You should still ask her. Tell Amy we’re doing pictures at my house. Then she definitely won’t come. Remember the thirteenth birthday party fiasco?” I remind him. My mom thought it would be nice to invite Ava to my birthday party the year after my dad went to prison, and Amy reposted something on Facebook about how your birth family isn’t important. Your chosen family is, with the caption ‘or their spouses and kids’ with a little heart emoji.
She’s a treat.
“We’re going to Jackson’s this year, right?” He asks me.
“I think so.” I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
“You’re supposed to know these things.”
“So are you!”
“You’re the organized one. I just do what I’m told.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I shake my head.
“Have you gotten your dress yet?” He asks me.
“Vi, Kendall, and I are going to the mall this weekend,” I tell him. “Yay.” I deadpan.
“You like shopping.”
“Not for dresses.”
“You found a prom dress in like two seconds last year.”
“Because I wanted to leave the store.” I have flashbacks to the store packed to the brim with tulle and glitter. I liked my light blue and white dress, but it was really just an attempt to get in and out of that store without having to have the dress altered.
“At least it’s Vi and Kendall.”
“I know.” I huff, slumping down in the chair. “And then I get to go to my dad’s.”
“What are you doing for your birthday?” He asks me.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I think my mom took off work. So probably Star Wars and macarons.”
“I can skip my tournament.” He offers.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll steal you after.”
“It’s going to be late.”
“Then let’s hope you aren’t too tired.”
“I still feel shitty about it.”
“Don’t. Really. Soccer is your ticket into Stanford and my ticket to not having to see you anymore.” I joke.
“2,934.3 miles of freedom.” He grins. “No more snow, no more quinoa—”
“You know they have quinoa in California, right?” I cut him off.
“But I don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re going to go into like, sugar shock.” I shake my head.
“Is that a thing?”
“I don’t know!”
“I feel like you should.” He looks at me doubtfully.
“Whatever, Biochem.” I roll my eyes.
“In college! Right now, I have the Biochemistry intelligence of an anti-vax mom’s toddler with an 8-ball of cocaine and a saxophone.”
“Well, that’s an oddly specific issue, isn’t it?”
“I’m never going to win, am I?” He slumps down in his chair
“You should know this by now.” I shrug.
The all-white room is bright against the twilight sky. The sun is well set behind the hills of the valley Emerson sits in, and the clear October sky makes it easy to see the stars.
“Want to make me feel dumb?” He asks, noticing my averted gaze.
“I really do.” I grin as I follow him to the sliding door.
“Telescope or no?” He asks me. I can feel the water soak through my shoes.
“Absolutely.” I beam as we walk up the stairs to my house. I follow him up the stairs, into my room where I pull my telescope out of my closet.
“You owe me soccer trivia for this.”
“I know, I know.” I wave a hand in front of my face. “I’ll keep it short.”
He opens the hall closet as we exit my room, pulling out a blanket and wrapping it around my shoulders. “It’s cold.” He shrugs before doing the same.
I intuitively set up my telescope, pressing my face to the eyepiece before stepping away. “Go ahead.” I step back, allowing Max to take over.
“What are you seeing?” I ask him after a few moments.
“Cassiopeia, Cygnus, and the Big Dipper.” He lists.
“And name two stars in Cygnus?”
“Albireo A and Albireo B.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Another one.” I shake my head in disapproval.
“Deneb.” He pulls his face away, grinning.
I’m sure my disappointment is visible as he chuckles. “You looked it up?”
“While you were getting it out of your closet. Any other constellation, and you never would’ve let me live it down.” He beams.
“You’re the brat.”
“I’m the one who knows how to use my resources.” He defends.
“That’s the most cliché cheating line in the world.” I pop a hand on my hip, losing my blanket cape to the ground.
I groan as the freezing air hits my skin. By the time I’ve even thought about bending down to get it, he’s already wrapping it around my shoulders.
“You should get some sleep,” I tell him.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m seventeen years old, believe it or not.”
“You’re se
venteen with the sleep schedule of my seventy-five-year-old grandfather.”
“You’re the worst.” He huffs.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” I ask him.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable—with him, it never is. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“See you then, Grandpa.” I joke, following him back inside from the balcony with my telescope.
“Whatever, Mom.” He rolls his eyes. “Love you!” he shouts as he makes his way down the stairs.
“Love you too!” I answer.
I flop down on my bed, plugging my phone in and staring at the stars on my ceiling.
Cygnus and Ursa Major are the only real constellations there. The rest are just sporadically placed by the judgment of a small child.
Not great.
After the accident, I used to count them to fall asleep. It’s my own weird version of counting sheep, but sometimes it works.
Most of the time, it doesn’t.
There are 137.
Corona Australis
The Southern Crown
“You have an appointment with Doctor Hines after school. Do you want me to drive you?” My mom asks from the doorframe as I apply my makeup.
“I have work. I can’t.” I put my mascara back in its spot in my drawer.
“I called Jerry. He said it’s okay.”
“He’s going to work himself to death.” I shake my head as I brush past her, walking into my room and sliding on my creased white sneakers.
The navy-blue crewneck with a white button-up under it screams prep school, but I don’t mind.
“That’s a little grim, don’t you think?” She asks as I put on a pair of faux-pearl earrings while walking back out of my room
“Not literally,” I tell her as I run down the stairs, sliding my hand down the wooden railing.
“How was dinner last night?” She asks as I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove.
“Good. Max convinced Mia that Camila and Bill went to school with the founding fathers.” I put a teabag in my navy-blue travel mug.
I grab an apple and one of mom’s blueberry bagels out of the fridge, popping the bagel in the toaster oven and setting the apple down next to it.
“And you let him?” She opens the cabinet and grabs a glass, filling it with water before sitting on a stool at the kitchen island.
“Absolutely.” I smile, leaning against the counter as I wait.
“You two are ridiculous.” She shakes her head, staring at something on her phone.
“Who’s ridiculous?” Max asks, shutting the door rather aggressively behind him.
“You,” I answer before she can.
“And her,” my mom adds.
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Max shrugs.
I pour some of the steaming water into a mug and add my mom’s favorite tea, handing it to her before filling my own and pressing the top on.
“There’s half a bagel in there for you,” I tell Max as the toaster oven dings.
“You’re an angel,” he praises, pulling the cream cheese out of the fridge. He grabs the knife off the counter and smears a little too much onto both of the halves.
“We’ve got to go,” I tell him, checking the clock on the stove.
“Thank you, Anna!” Max shouts, voice muffled by the bagel in his mouth as he exits through the same door he came in.
“Love you, Mom,” I tell her as I follow Max through the door.
“Doctor Hines after school!” She reminds me.
“Got it!” I shout before closing the door behind me.
I unlock the car for a very impatient Max as I walk down the driveway. “Took you long enough.” He huffs as I climb into the car, buckling my seatbelt and checking his.
“I was being reminded of the therapy appointment you condemned me to.” I roll my eyes as I back out of the driveway.
“The Brit’s a cool guy, though, right?” He asks as we wind through our suburb.
“He’s cool, but he’s a therapist. Not exactly how I wanted to spend my night.” I nearly laugh.
“It’ll be fun.” He jokes. “Just copy his accent. See what he does.” Max suggests through a mouth full.
That was my favorite thing about my therapist when I first met him. I’ve always thought it was funny that a therapist in a small town in upstate New York has a British accent, so that’s what I fixated on when I first started sessions with him. Not the fact that I almost died, and my father was in prison.
“Unfortunately, I’m over the age of six, so I don’t think that’ll fly.”
“I think it would be funny,” he says in an awful British accent.
“I think I would get sent to an institution.” I refuse to partake in the silly accent, but it does almost make me laugh.
“You’re boring,” he groans as we turn past Mr. McCoy’s house.
The rest of the drive to school is full of terrible radio ads and pop music from years ago, but Max is still doing the accent as we walk into Mr. Wilson’s classroom.
“‘Ello, Violet,” he says as he drops his bag to the floor.
“‘Ello, Queen Elizabeth.” Violet starts in her best accent. “Are we seeing the therapist today?”
“Bingo, love.” Max winks at her.
“Don’t encourage him,” I warn her.
“Phoebe love, you know I can’t resist a good accent. Digging the outfit by the way, very on-brand.”
I roll my eyes at her and pull out my notebook, jotting down the day’s date and blatantly ignoring a conversation happening in very terrible British accents next to me.
“We’re going to start a project today,” Wilson says as soon as the bell rings. “World Governments. Groups of two. Pick your partners, and you’ll pull your government out of this.” He holds up an ‘Emerson’ baseball cap. “I’m looking for at least fifteen slides. I’ll give you the rubric. Stop trying to have whisper-shout conversations with your friends. You can go now.” He waves a hand, indicating we should scatter.
I turn to Violet.
“Hell no. Go.” She points to Graham, who’s already walking over toward me. “Max? Go get Ava.” She instructs.
“Fine.” Max huffs, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and walking over to Ava’s desk.
“Hey, you want to be partners?” Graham asks me.
“Sure,” I tell him. He takes Max’s seat, setting his black Nike backpack down next to the desk.
Max is sitting next to Ava, laughing at something she said.
It would appear the cool act is genuine to anyone who doesn’t know him well, but he’s really trying his best not to be super awkward.
Vi somehow managed to convince Tommy to be her partner, which should be interesting at the very least.
“What are you hoping for?” I ask Graham.
“I don’t really have a preference in world governments.” He laughs, flipping open his green notebook.
“Green? For history?” I ask him.
“Green for history, blue for english, orange for math, red for science.” He lists.
“You’re a monster.” I shake my head. “Blue for history, green for science, red for English, white for math, orange for Spanish.”
“That’s just wrong.”
“Go ahead, guys,” Wilson holds out the hat.
“You want to do the honors?” I ask him.
“All you.” He holds up his hands.
I reach into the hat and pull out a thoroughly folded piece of paper. “New Zealand.”
“You got a good one,” Wilson says before walking away.
“Health care and a female Prime Minister,” I say to Graham.
“Yeah, that’s about all I know, too.” He chuckles. “Want to work on it tomorrow night?”
“What time do you want me to come over?” I ask him.
“Anything works for me. You said you had to do later, right?”
“Nope, canceled, so whenever is fine.”
“Great. Is five good fo
r you?” He asks.
“Yeah, sounds great.” I smile, turning my head toward the rubric on my desk.
We plan out our slides for the rest of the period, searching for things about New Zealand online and jotting down anything interesting.
“See you in Bio,” Graham says with a smile as we go our separate ways.
I walk to Spanish without Max, assuming he’s with Ava. He barely makes it to Spanish before the bell, sliding into his seat at the last second.
“How was it?” I ask him.
“It was good. She’s nice.” He answers shortly
“No elaboration on that one?” I ask him. “She was a babe yesterday.”
“Am I ever going to be able to live that down?” He asks me.
“Absolutely not.” I laugh.
“Señorita Mitchell, do you have something to share with the class?” Mr. Velasquez asks, approaching my desk.
“No, Señor.” I shake my head.
“Great,” he says, returning to his desk.
Max bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
‘F off’ I mouth to him.
We take a too-long quiz, and soon enough, the bell rings, finally ending the period.
“How’s it feel to finally get yelled at by a teacher?” Max asks me as soon as we’re out of the classroom.
“That was your fault.” I glare at him.
“You want to talk about my fault? How about every single time I get in trouble in class because you’re talking? Finally getting what you deserve.” He shakes his head, a smile forcing its way onto his lips.
“You really are the worst,” I tell him as we approach our lab bench.
“You love me.” He grins.
“Sure.” I shake my head, sitting on my stool.
I find myself zoning out a lot during Kumar’s lecture. I take notes, but I know I’ll have to go over them again tonight.
“So, what country did you get?” Graham asks Max after Kumar tells us to work on our homework for the rest of the period.
“France.” He answers. “Letting them eat cake and all that stuff,” he says, scribbling down an answer in his packet. “You guys?”
“New Zealand.” Graham answers.
“That’s actually a good one,” Max says. “Female Prime Minister and health care.”
“That’s exactly what she said.” Graham shakes his head.